


Movement: Mesto

by Iristedeu



Series: Movement [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bard Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Post vault, Probably sat up all night worried about Y’shtola, seriously let me hug this poor boy hes so sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iristedeu/pseuds/Iristedeu
Summary: In the wake of tragedy, the Warrior of Light keeps his hands busy and his steps busier still.Sometimes the grief of others was far easier to deal with then the grief waiting buried in your own heart.
Series: Movement [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744579
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	Movement: Mesto

**Author's Note:**

> Time Frame: Heavensward. Spoilers accordingly.
> 
> Notes: Alvaar is far from okay, but the breakneck speed post-Vault rather suits him. So does fixating on other people’s needs over his own. Sometimes we don’t know quite what to say, but we have to do our best anyhow.
> 
> And again, shoutout to the lovely people that have been reading, leaving kudos, and writing comments. I love the ever loving heck out of you and you make this effort worth it. Seriously, every time I see people have been enjoying my work it makes me smile like an idiot. You all the best, and you're my hero, so you stay beautiful and know Bard Mom loves you.

Glancing over at Alphinaud, Alvaar studied him quietly a moment from under the brim of his hat.

With Y’shtola rescued from the lifestream by the Elder Seedseer and her siblings, all that was left to do was wait and see as the Miqo’te rested in her inn room with her sister tending to her.

Tataru had left some hours ago to Alvaar’s permanently reserved room at the Roost, doing some last-minute touches on whatever surprise she’d been working on. That left the Bard to stand vigil with Alphinaud as the night dragged on and the hiss of Gridania’s frequent rains murmured from the large open doorway.

The youth had stoutly refused any offer to retire himself, so Alvaar had felt little other choice but to remain with him, watching the many patrons move in and out of the establishment while he worked on another one of a never ending collection of sewing projects. This one a small plush in the shape of a pudding for the leader of his Free Company.

But as time dragged on, the Bard felt he could practically hear the guilt weighing over his companion, the soft notes of song echoing in his senses if he focused hard enough.

It wasn’t remotely surprising. He’d long figured Alphinaud still vehemently blamed himself for all that had happened to the Scions since that fateful banquet in Ul’dah. Many had been lost along the way and Ishgard had seen yet ano-

He twitched as he pricked himself on his needle, wincing and recoiling without a word of pain as he shook out his hand and studied the mark.

No, he couldn’t think about what all had been lost. There was still much to be saved and if the best that he could do right now was help this youth in whatever way he could... well. So be it.

“You know there’s quite a view off the back porch of the Roost? It overlooks one of the lakes in the Shroud,” he started, leaving the statement hanging expectantly as he stared at the snowy haired Elezen.

Blinking out of his reverie, Alphinaud gave him a flat look. “It’s black as pitch outside and a rainstorm to boot. I hardly think there’d be much of a view.”

Point.

“Humor me anyway, some air would do us both good.” Rising to his feet he stared at the Arcanist pointedly when he still didn’t budge. “Or would you prefer I take up my harp?”

Why that always had Alphinaud scurrying to comply he wasn’t certain, but it felt like a double edged insult.

-

Dragging in a slow breath of evening crisp air, Alvaar took a moment to enjoy it. Leaning against the banister he tilted his head to watch Alphinaud steadily follow and stare out into the dark morosely.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alvaar asked softly.

Even in the dim light cast off from the building he could see the Arcanist tense. “What needs be discussed?” he asked in turn, tone carefully neutral. Unwilling to bring things up himself.

Studying him for a few more moments Alvaar finally looked away. He knew somewhere he had words, good ones. Ones he’d learned from several people now lost but the wisdom stayed with him still. Words that might help to drag him back from this guilt spiraled depression Alphinaud had been in. But anytime he tried to summon them up he was never certain how to say them, feeling them ring hollow on his tongue and heavier in his heart.

And this time he didn’t have Haurchefant to rely on as he had in Dragonhead...

His heart ached painfully, and he pushed through it stoically anyway. Not now. Not when the weight of his grief would overtake him if he let it and drown him in it. His strength was still needed by those he protected.

Alvaar had long been uncertain how to help his friend, worried about stepping on the youths pride or coming off wrong. Never knowing how the Warrior of Light should reply when a matter needed more than just a ‘yes let me go do the deadly and dangerous things now.’

And watching the weight of a world gone to hell pile up on slight shoulders, soaked in the bitter acid of loss and guilt and grief so like his own...

And here he was, a Bard without words. Unable to craft a song to aid his comrade in the worst battle of his life.

So much for being a hero of lore and legend...

It was the Coils of Bahamut all over again. Heart heavy and trying to find a way to reach out and offer support but unable to find the right way to say it.

So he said nothing and pulled Alphinaud to him instead. Held him as tight as he could and ignored the way the Arcanist struggled a moment for balance despite being held rocksteady against a tall but sturdy frame.

“It’s not your fault.” They weren’t the words he’d been looking for, but they were true all the same. Not nearly as robust or poetic but that was fine. It would have to suffice for them both.

“Alvaar what on Eorzea are you doing I’m fine,” Alphinaud hissed even as he froze, certainly red to his ear tips in embarrassment but the light too dim to see.

“None of it was your fault,” he whispered, deaf to or just ignoring his friend’s protests. Instead he just bowed his head and stayed still. A poor replication of what his mentor had done for him in his youth but it would still just have to be enough.

“I... Alvaar now isn’t the time for th-”

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated again, tone a bit firmer and hold a bit tighter as he felt the faint tremor in the Arcanist’s shoulders. And that was a feeling he knew. The feeling of pride and anger and sadness at everything and trying so hard to keep it together so you wouldn’t be viewed as weak. There wasn’t ever any time to be weak in a world this cruel...

“You’ve still got me. Whatever happens. Me and Tataru and Urianger... But Y’shtola will wake up and she’ll be fine, and she’ll tell you the same. It wasn’t your fault Alphinaud and no one will ever blame you for what happened. It’s going to be okay.”

“Al-” the words cut off with a choked noise, making Alvaar’s ears twitch and his heart went out to the Arcanist at that raw note of pain he knew like an old friend. The beast that now shadowed his step and once this was over, once this battle and his revenge were taken it would be his turn to face it too…

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he whispered. And he didn’t have any further words after that but it would have to do as he stood silent vigil, listening to the rain and doing his best to seem like he didn’t notice the soft tremors and sobs as his resolute charge finally fell apart.

**Author's Note:**

> Mesto: Mournful, sad


End file.
